


the only way out is through

by atleastwestoletheshow (Silverwolf329)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (from the cult of the death eaters), Gen, Pre-Canon, The Great Snape Escape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24254419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwolf329/pseuds/atleastwestoletheshow
Summary: Severus realizes he’s in too deep on a Saturday evening, when the Dark Lord is as angry as he is charismatic, rage oozing through the air in a dark sludge, spells flying in rapid, flashing succession towards the object of his ire.(Snape realizes he's in a cult. The hard part is getting out.)
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Severus Snape, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape, Poppy Pomfrey & Severus Snape
Comments: 56
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

Severus realizes he’s in too deep on a Saturday evening, when the Dark Lord is as angry as he is charismatic, rage oozing through the air in a dark sludge, spells flying in rapid, flashing succession towards the object of his ire.

At this point, the Muggle is almost unrecognizable, more a mess of groaning flesh than human. It’s a testament to the Dark Lord’s skill that he’s still alive, remaining hand clenching uselessly at the wine-dark rug.

Severus nurses the deep, stinging cut on his upper arm, punishment for his failure to brew enough Draught of Living Death – among other, more unsavory potions. He knows this, the show, is punishment for him too. No matter how much the thin silver of the mask hides, the Dark Lord manages to peer into his eyes and see the truth, despite the carefully constructed and Occluded walls around his mind.

This is a punishment. This is a threat.

His stomach turns, and he gnaws at his cheek to quell the rising tide of bile. His hands, though, are carefully steady. Warm blood carves a trail down his arm, sticking the thick robes to his skin, dripping off a pale fingertip to the same dot on the floor.

Eventually, though, the Dark Lord has had enough. With a careful flourish and a final spurt of blood, the Muggle goes limp on the floor; in the next breath, he’s been Vanished, the slowly growing stain on the once-pristine carpet the only testament to his existence.

“Severus,” the Dark Lord purrs, “Look at me.”

Only then does Severus lift blank eyes from the floor, meeting his Lord’s. His flinch is mental, not physical, but the Dark Lord’s upper lip curls in a dark sort of amusement, anyway.

His eyes glimmer, a dangerously keen wit layered under a thin veneer of madness. “You will have what I need next time we meet, yes?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Severus says, loud in the silence. He doesn’t know how he’ll get the ingredients, expensive as they are. He doesn’t know where he’ll find the pure copper cauldron he needs, with his job at the bookstore barely enough to cover his rent. He doesn’t even know the next time the Dark Lord will call. It could be next month, or it could be tomorrow. There’s a threat in the Dark Lord’s eyes nonetheless.

The Dark Lord hums. “You’re all dismissed.”

With that, he is gone with a sharp crack, and the anti-Apparition wards fall. The swish of robes on cobblestone is muted, but loud enough to snap Severus’ eyes from the spot where the Dark Lord was just a moment ago.

His throat works without sound. He knows that if he turns around, eyes wild, to ask for help, he will be rejected.

The Dark Lord’s punishment for failure is steep. The Dark Lord’s punishment for assisting a failure is even steeper.

He turns sharply and reappears in his dingy studio. He can’t suppress a shiver as the cold of the night air finally reaches through the thin veil of indifference that has settled across his mind.

The darkness in his flat is oppressive and threatening. He fumbles blindly for a switch before realizing that he hasn’t paid the electricity bill in three months.

That, like a mallet to a crab shell, is what shatters his numbness.

His mask clatters to the floor as he falls to his knees in front of the toilet and retches. Nothing comes up but bile, tinged pink – he’s torn his throat screaming again.

He rests his head on the cool porcelain. Sweat has begun beading his temples as adrenaline fades and shock sets in, but his stomach is turning too violently to risk leaving his post.

He retches twice more before it settles. His throat burns.

Laboriously, he drags himself to the sink. It’s not more than a step and a half; his flat is barely big enough to spin in a circle once he’d put in a bed and a dresser. He swishes his mouth with the cold, metallic water twice before peeling the blood-soaked sleeve off of his arm, lighting his wand to assess the damage.

He grimaces. A quick healing spell isn’t worth the Dark Lord’s wrath, should he discover that Severus has undone his work. It’ll need stitches.

He fumbles in the mirror cabinet for a second before pulling out his suture kit with a trembling hand. At least the Dark Lord had the mercy to slice his right arm, but then again, maybe he hadn’t known Severus was left-handed.

Either way, small mercies.

The prick of the needle is minor, but the rough pull of thread through skin has him gritting his teeth. It takes eight sutures before the wound is closed and he can rinse the remaining flaking blood off his arm.

He shrugs the rest of the robe off. It pools on the floor, gathering dust in the wet hems. He’ll get to that tomorrow. For now, he toes off his shoes and rummages through the dresser, pulling out something clean and black, tying it around his arm.

He doesn’t really register collapsing on the bed, but he does register looking up at the ceiling. Water damage stains it red in uneven whorls.

Exhaustion tugs at his eyelids, but when he closes them, his racing mind forces them open again.

He’s already cut his diet down to instant noodles. He has no hobbies to spend his time or money on, and his meager savings, squirreled under his bed in a magically-sealed tin can, won’t be enough to cover the ingredients he needs.

His eyes fall shut. His boss is stingy with shifts, and he’s already begged all the extra ones he can this month. None of the other followers will help him, even the ones who currently bask in the Dark Lord’s tenuous favor.

He’s got no friends to speak of. Even before he was sworn to servitude, his classmates had shunned him for the patch on his robes and his Housemates had turned their noses up at his greasy hair and patchy robes.

Only Lucius had been willing to help. It was Lucius who had bought him Potions tome after Potions tome, who had plied him with ingredients and robes that didn’t let the dungeon chill in, who had turned the sneers on his peers’ faces into razor-sharp grins.

His pride had reared and snapped at him, at the time, but it was such a welcome relief to be useful that he had shoved it away. He bore their barbed little comments and Lucius’ weaselly, condescending smile with a thick skin and hunched shoulders, hidden behind a cloud of colored vapor from whatever potion he was working on.

With Lily gone and Potter’s torment more frequent than ever, he’d lost himself in his work. And eventually, the Dark Lord had noticed his wicked little potions and sharp little spells and the way he stayed at Hogwarts every break.

And so Lucius had delivered him unto evil.

And then Lucius, as much the Dark Lord’s dog as Severus was Lucius’, had slunk away when the Dark Lord had demanded Severus learn independence until he had either the name or the money to contribute to the cause.

And without Lucius, without money, without any kind of support system, Severus slowly began sinking.

On a Saturday evening, silent tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, hand shoved into his mouth muffle sobs as his arm stings and burns, Severus hits rock bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody it's melodrama time!
> 
> This is my little attempt to create a Severus worthy of the redemption arc JKR gave him. I've (thankfully) never actually been in/escaped a cult, so, feel free to yell at me if I got anything incredibly wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning dawns, and Severus hasn’t slept for a second. Tears have dried into salt crystals at his temples. His hand, limp at his side, has been chewed raw, leaking blood onto his rumpled sheets. The shirt tied around his arm is damp with sweat and blood.

It doesn’t much matter. He’s going to die. Tomorrow, or in a week, or maybe a month, if the Dark Lord is feeling generous, he’s going to die, first screaming, then moaning, then gurgling.

Something taps at his grimy window, and he groans, eyelids closing briefly over sandpaper-dry eyes.

Still, if it’s Lucius, it might be important. It might be help.

He drags creaking limbs out of bed and forces open the window. He’s got nothing to offer the owl, who pecks an angry cut onto his hand before fluttering away.

The letter is short, scrawled onto the back of a piece of scrap paper.  _ Piper’s called in sick. You get the second shift. _

It’s not signed. Severus huffs. There’s no one else it could be, but it’s a courtesy missing nonetheless. For a moment, he considers quitting right then and there, and spending the rest of his short, miserable life in this hole of a room. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll starve to death before the Dark Lord calls again.

But.

He’s never worked a daytime shift. His greasy hair, sallow skin, and acerbic tongue make him an unattractive keeper for the chipper morning crowd, and perfect for the Dark, malicious crowd that frequents the second-hand bookshop after it has officially closed.

And it’s not like he has anything better to do.

With a sigh, he sweeps his hair up into something resembling a low ponytail and casts a freshening-up charm before tucking his wand into its forearm holster. It tingles pleasantly on his skin, the smell of lavender and lemon settling into his clothes.

The slacks from last night will do. A dark red robe, quickly waterproofed, will also do.

He glances in the mirror. There’s nothing that can be done for the dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is paler than ever, what with the blood still dotting the floor.

His glance skirts to the bed, and a quick flick of his wrist brings the tin to him, rattling the few spare coins he has. If he’s going to die soon, savings don’t much matter either.

He dumps the sickles and knuts into his pocket. There’s an ice-cream shop next to the bookstore, he remembers vaguely. It’s been so long since he’s been. The tin clinks on the floor, settling lightly onto the mask that still lies there from the night before. He kicks them both under the bed.

Another sharp twirl and he’s next to the ice cream shop. Florean Fortescue’s, the bright signage proclaims it. It’s after lunch rush, which means only two couples sit inside. They side-eye him as he walks by.

Fortescue himself smiles widely when Severus approaches the counter, but there’s a sharp point of disgust and a pang of fear in the set of his shoulders.

It doesn’t matter. A knut for a scoop of vanilla, and he’s gone, feeling the atmosphere of the cheerful shop relax once the door shuts with a warm whiff of fudge.

He settles into the shadows, away from the bright June sunlight, and leans into the brickwork as he eats. His stomach isn’t happy that ice cream is the first thing he’s eaten in two days, but it’s better than nothing.

It’s been years since he’s had dessert. He’d almost forgotten ice cream’s slippery texture. The vanilla is complex, tasting of both pod and seed, and there’s a hint of warm caramel underneath it all.

Best of all, there’s no sharp tang of arsenic or hemlock. The beazor perpetually hidden up his sleeve remains unconsumed as the last drop of ice cream hits the back of his throat.

A quick  _ tempus _ tells him it’s time to go to work. The bookstore is slightly musty, and dust swirls in the sunlight as he opens the door. A mousy boy glances up at him, then at the clock on the wall, an ill-concealed grimace at the thought of a customer after his shift is over. “Hello, sir! Can I help you with anything today?”

Severus feels a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Piper’s sick. I’m taking her shift.”

“Oh!” The boy squeaks. “I’ve never- Are you new? Have you been trained?” He wilts a little as Severus’ sneer doesn’t ease.

“I’m… a friend of the owner’s.” The boy likely doesn’t know about the shop’s nighttime operations. Severus hopes he never does. “I know what to do.”

“Okay! The, uh, register’s zeroed already!” With that, the boy gathers his bag and almost sprints out the door.

Severus shakes his head, sneer dropping. The boy’s too trusting. It’ll get him killed.

The shift passes quietly, with only three customers, two of which leave without buying anything. Severus supposes that’s why he was allowed to take this one. He can’t hurt the store’s nice daytime reputation if nobody sees him.

The bell at the door jingles as he’s wiping down the counter. Inwardly, he curses - he should have locked the door the moment the clock hit six.

He lifts his head, tongue curling to remark on the obvious illiteracy of the idiot customer.

A shock of red hair. Green eyes, sharp like shattered glass and cold as ice. A smattering of freckles, sprinkled carelessly on the bridge of a delicate, button-small nose.

Severus blinks, and the illusion is gone. It’s not Lily.

“We’re closed,” he croaks, fingers tightening on the rag in his grip. Faintly, he can hear threads snapping. Blood leaks slowly down his upper arm, pooling in the waterproofed elbow.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “I just-”

“We’re closed,” he growls.

The door snaps shut. 


	3. Chapter 3

Severus’ meagre belongings are strewn across his flat. Two piles of clothes sorted into “mostly whole” and “more patches than original cloth,” a few compendiums on ingredients and rarer potions that haven’t quite worked their way into his muscle memory yet. A collapsible pewter cauldron, a few shrunken racks of the ingredients he’s managed to forage. Most extensive is his collection of medical supplies, sutures and gauze jumbled with a single blood-replenishing potion and a few drops of essence of Dittany.

It’s not much of a collection for having graduated three years ago, but there’s not much that can be done now. There’s nobody to leave it to, either.

He yanks open the bottommost drawer in his dresser, the last unturned crevice in his tiny little room. It’s stuffed with trinkets and old cloth, things that are broken beyond repair but that Severus has never had the heart to throw away.

The pile of rags that sits on his bed after he’s emptied the drawer looks smaller than it did when stuffed in the dresser. He runs light fingers over the bottom, and then –

There’s a patch at the back corner that sounds hollow when he taps on it. He doesn’t remember putting it there, but if he concentrates, there’s a ward that feels like his own.

Idly, his hand traces a little pattern that had been his wardbreaker as a child. His breath catches when the pattern glows then sinks into the wood, which pops open. Inside sits a little hand mirror, small enough to palm.

A hazy memory drifts up in the back of his mind, crystalizing slowly like ocean salt at the rim of a pan. Bright red hair, worried green eyes pricking with tears.  _ If you’re ever in trouble, _ she’d said, voice wavering with emotion,  _ please call me. No matter what, please. I’ll answer. I promise. _

They’d fallen apart before he’d ever been desperate enough to use it. Vaguely, he remembers shattering the mirror against the cold stone of the dungeon wall, but he can’t have, because the delicate filigree of vines and forget-me-nots on the back is just like he remembers, and the mirror is whole and smooth in his hand.

With a light mental shake, the memory of shattering the mirror crumbles, settling into a recollection of shaking fingers carefully prying a loose stone from the wall when his dormmates were asleep, and nestling that little mirror inside where nobody would be able to find it.

On the last day of school, after everyone else had moved out, he’d pried the stone loose again, holding the mirror as his legs turned liquid underneath him, sitting huddled on the floor, just like he is now. He’d thought about using it, briefly, but a memory of Lily’s icy eyes that night outside the Gryffindor dormitories had stopped him.

She’d hated him. Still hates him, hates who he’s surrounded himself with, hates the master he kneels before.

She’d probably shattered the mirror after he’d called her a Mudblood. She had never been one to destroy things in anger but that might have been enough, because it had destroyed their friendship, too.

He runs his finger over a little leaf detail, and almost startles out of his skin at the perfunctory rap on the door. He barely has time to shove the mirror under the pile of rags on his bed before the door creaks open, Lucius wrinkling his nose at the mess.

“Hello, Severus,” Lucius says, consonants crisp and clear.

Severus doesn’t respond. He knows what Lucius wants, another favor cashed in, another poison or potion to brew.

“I can’t afford it,” Severus cuts Lucius off. “Whatever you want me to do, I can’t afford it.”

Lucius pauses, taken aback. Even at his lowest, Severus has never been one to ask for help, to let on any hint of weakness. “Of course, I would supply you with any ingredients you don’t have. I need only your time.”

Severus’ lip curls, hidden behind a hanging sheet of hair. Only his time, not his skill, because of course any of his betters could brew just as well as he does. He’s the only one that’s expendable enough to waste the time doing so. “I can’t afford it,” he fairly growls this time.

Lucius’ brow is furrowed when Severus looks up, delicate features creased in a perfect mimicry of innocent confusion. “Did you not hear me?” Lucius asks mildly. “You know how I hate repeating myself.” The hand not clutching his snake-topped cane is tucked in his pocket, wrapped around a knife or his wand. When he’s dealing with Severus, both options are equally likely.

“You know I can’t do what our Lord bids of me,” Severus grits out lowly. “You know as well as I do that yesterday’s show was for me.” There’s no time for talking in circles now. Couching words in careful metaphor had always been a strength of his, but now, the effort seems entirely wasted.

Lucius’ face has lost it’s veneer of concern, pale blue eyes glimmering in an unmasked threat. “Don’t be so presumptuous,” he says silkily, “as to assume that the Dark Lord would do anything just for you, little snake. I believe you’re deflecting from the matter at hand.” His eyebrow arches haughtily, expecting an apology, expecting Severus to grovel.

Instead, rage bubbles in Severus’ stomach, up his throat, spilling through his teeth. “Fuck off,” he snarls, a moment before he remembers why he doesn’t let himself feel anger, not around Lucius.

In a flash, Lucius’ knife is digging into his cheek, a mere centimeter from his eye. The pain as it gouges into bone is sharp, explosive, and Severus can’t help the sharp breath that escapes between his clenched teeth.

Severus’ own knife is holstered on his calf, too far down to reach with Lucius’ blade embedded so close to his eye.

Instead, his hand gropes on the bed for his wand, discarded somewhere in the mess.  _ Stupid, _ he chastises himself,  _ stupid to let your guard down. Stupid, _ he repeats as Lucius’ slender little knife slashes across the bridge of his nose, flicking hot blood into his eye, and then twists deep into his left shoulder, causing his questing hand to spasm.

Lucius, at least, remembers that he’s left handed.

“You little  _ worm _ ,” Lucius snarls, dragging the knife down across his torso, adding a fresh slash to the ugly mess of scars that already exists. “I picked you up from the gutter so that you could be useful and this is how you betray me?”

A high-pitched whine leaks out of Severus’ throat as the knife buries itself in his side. He can feel his skin tearing, the knife buried past the blade, catching his gut on the hilt and ripping.

At last, though, his fingers catch on the smooth handle of his wand, which hums to life under his fingertips. He forces himself to grasp it, curling fingers sending a fresh bolt of agony up his arm.

“You can be useful to me one more time,” Lucius says with his sadistic grin, the one that few see and fewer still survive to speak about. “Perhaps the Dark Lord will be pleased when I bring him a little worm’s tongue.”

Severus can’t speak through the trail of blood leaking down his throat, Lucius’ knife pressed tight against his trachea. It doesn’t matter. His own spells have settled into his bones since the day they were born. 

A slash and a grunt of effort, and Severus knows he’s hit true when a fresh splattering of blood hits him. He blinks the red out of his eyes enough to see Lucius stagger back, clutching his inner thigh as his own lifeblood begins welling up.

“Tricky little worm,” Lucius spits. “I won’t make it quick, then. Lay there and bleed.”

With that, he’s gone. Severus’ vision is suddenly blurring, adrenaline no longer keeping the edges clear, and black spots dance in his vision. Lucius is right. He’s had no time to take his last Blood-Replenishing Potion, and the last few days are catching up to him.

His knees hit the back of the bed, and he collapses onto it with a groan, pressing futilely on the wound on his shoulder. 

There’s nothing more to do but destroy that mirror. Then Lily will be safe, and he can die in peace.


	4. Chapter 4

Severus eyes the rusty whorls on the ceiling as his hand quests over his bed. Turning his head seems like a monumental effort. His vision is pulsing, blurring and greying. His fingertips prickle like static, like dying embers. The slash on his chest has cooled from molten to glacial.

Something hard and cold meets his hunting fingertips. Idly, he traces the smooth edges, almost expecting the sharp bite of Lucius’ knife.

His mind has begun blurring like his vision, pulsing grey and fuzzy.

He was going to do one more thing. One more thing, then he can rest. What was he going to do?

Magic pulses under his fingertips in waves as he traces the hypnotic pattern under his hand. It’s soothing, like a memory of a lullaby, magic threading through his mother’s song, washed smooth by the years.

It’s not such a bad thing to dream up, if it’s the last thing he will feel. Alone, in his dingy little flat, at least his mind can give him some semblance of peace before he goes.

“Snape.” Lily’s voice echoes briefly, cold like it was on the day that she left. In its own way, this dream, too, brings comfort. She might hate him, but she’s alive for it.

“Lils,” he sighs, lips slick, tongue clumsy with exhaustion. Vaguely, he can feel blood bubbling up his throat, spilling onto his chest.

“Snape,” and this time her voice is sharper, tinged with panic. “Snape, where are you?”

He can’t help the grin that crooks up the corner of his mouth. Something in his chest is very warm. “Lily.”

The darkness, this time, is welcoming.


	5. Chapter 5

Severus swims out of unconsciousness to a hesitant knock on the door. He can’t make himself move, though, head lolling helplessly against the wall. Everything is muted and numb, and he’s vaguely aware of his body shivering even if he can’t feel it.

_ It can’t be that important _ , he thinks, as the knocking gets more insistent.  _ I’m tired _ .

The knocking has escalated to pounding, or maybe that’s just the headache forming in his temples. Still, nothing moves.

It stops, and he faintly hears a muttered curse on the other side of the door.  _ Good _ , Severus thinks.  _ Let me sleep _ .

The door shatters into his room violently, spraying splinters into his face. _ That’ll be a bitch to replace _ , Severus thinks mildly. He can’t bring himself to care.

Someone’s yelling frantically. Two people are yelling frantically, a male and a female. Severus’ eyes are closed, though, and opening them to see who’s yelling seems like a monumental waste of effort.  _ Go away _ , he tries to say. A low groan is the only thing that escapes his mouth.

And then there’s hands on him, a hand on his head, a hand pushing heavily on his side, and there’s the pain he had forgotten, spiking sharply through him.

He tries to twitch away from the pain, but all he can manage is a shudder. He doesn’t have the strength to do more than bat at the hand closest to him, and he wonders why he isn’t dead yet, if Lucius has come to finish the job. Maybe the Dark Lord wants him alive for torment.

That thought is enough to breathe a spark of life into him, and he lashes out. Fingernails rake at something warm, wet, and his teeth sink into something soft when he rears up, ignoring the agony carving through his torso.

For a moment, the hands leave him. He braces himself for a bolt of green, for his hands to fall from his arms, for his tongue to be severed through his teeth.

Instead, a warm blanket of magic settles over him, locking his limbs in place. 

“James,” the woman says, before trailing off into an incoherent barrage of sounds.

_ Oh, Hells, _ Severus thinks.  _ Might as well die asleep _ .

And with that, he sinks back into the blackness tugging at the edges of his consciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

The next time Severus blinks into consciousness, he’s faced with rough-hewn stone and glaring white sheets. The sharp scent of disinfecting spells trickles into his nose, and the cold clamp of shackles bite into his wrists and ankles.

Being shackled to a bed in the Hogwarts Infirmary is an odd afterlife, he muses. But at least he isn’t bleeding anymore.

He chances a glance at his body. It’s mostly covered in a thin white sheet, corners tucked neatly into the cot. His chest is wrapped in bandages, but they feel dry and soft.

His wand is gone. The knife strapped to his calf is nowhere to be found. The beazor he keeps tucked up his sleeve - and, for that matter, the sleeve he usually tucks the beazor into - has disappeared.

They wouldn’t have been much use, chained up as he is anyway.

His hands clench, flexing in the shackles. There’s no give, but the chains are long enough that he can tuck his elbows into his sides and relieve some of the pressure in his shoulders. Runes of protection, strength, and magical dampening are carved throughout the links and the cuff - even if he had his wand, he wouldn’t be able to use it, let alone break the shackles.

He’s prodding into the warding twined into the metal with what little access to magic the shackles grant him, trying to convince it to open, when the doors to the infirmary open. For a moment, it looks like Severus should have chosen the Christian God.

When the man opens his mouth, though, it’s useless for Severus to pretend he doesn’t know who the man is. He’s aged twenty years in the span of three, it looks like, but the paternalistic tone is impossible to mistake.

“You’re awake,” Headmaster Dumbledore observes.

Severus doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He also doesn’t take his eyes off the Headmaster, following him to a chair placed by his bed, just out of Severus’ reach, even if he was unshackled.

The Headmaster’s holding a cup of tea and wearing casual, understated robes, the garish eyesores he usually prefers nowhere to be found. He keeps his hands firmly wrapped around the mug and in sight, but Severus doesn’t relax - the Headmaster is one of the few wizards to have mastered wandless magic.

Dumbledore takes a slow sip of his tea, steam fogging his half-moon glasses. The silence stretches thin, punctured by the rattle of his chains as Severus twitches. He grits his teeth, picks a spot on the wall above Dumbledore’s head to stare at, and pointedly does not make another sound.

“You haven’t changed much since you’ve left,” Dumbledore says, inspecting a chip on the rim of his mug. “No questions for me? What happened? How did I get here? Good afternoon, how are you?”

Dumbledore takes another sip of his tea, waiting for a response. Severus, after a moment, gives a terse shake of his head.

Dumbledore lets out a puff of air through his nose. “You’re waiting for this to turn into an interrogation.” It’s not a question.

Severus’ arm clenches, unbidden. The absence of stitches pulling at his upper arm is glaring.

With a sigh, Dumbledore places his mug onto Severus’ bedside table. “I won’t lie, I have questions.” With his now-free hand, he reaches into his pocket. The chains rattle as Severus flinches, but all Dumbledore takes out is a piece of parchment. “Madame Pomfrey performed a diagnostic, and the results are troubling.”

Severus bites his tongue to stop himself from snapping,  _ Well, medical results tend to be troubling when one has had a knife in their chest. _

The Headmaster seems to read his meaning, though, and huffs out a laugh. “Outside the obvious, of course, there’s evidence of significant, untreated injury in the past few years. Now, I think I know where you received these injuries, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

Severus recoils, pulling his limbs into his body as far as the chains will let him. “The Dark Lord has never laid a hand on me,” he says, almost automatically.

“You know as well as I do that we needn’t lay hands to cause pain, Severus,” the Headmaster replies gently. “I fail to see where else you could have been injured to such a degree.”

“He’s done more for me than you and your lot ever have,” Severus scoffs. “I have friends, now, and more power than I could have dreamed of as a child.”

Dumbledore’s lip crooks into an understanding smile that Severus seethes at. “Where were your friends when you were attacked a week ago?”

For a moment, Severus is struck dumb. His injuries had been severe, obviously, but with Madam Pomfrey’s skill, he shouldn’t have been asleep for more than a few days. For lack of a better reply, he snaps, “Where were you when a werewolf almost ate me?”

Severus’ jaw shuts with an audible click, but the damage is done. The Headmaster is looking at him like he’s an errant teenager, like it’s been three days since he graduated instead of three years. 

“Is now the time to be discussing old grievances?” Dumbledore asks, almost tiredly. “I would rather talk about why your apartment was nothing but uniforms and cheap potions ingredients. You’re a bright young man, Severus. You could have a Potions Mastery by now, and you’ve given it all up for what?”

Severus ignores the way his chest tightens at the praise, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw creaks. His eyes, which had been drifting towards Dumbledore’s, snap back to the spot on the wall above his head. “We all give everything to our Lord for his glorious cause. You haven’t seen his vision of the world, where our blood isn’t constantly being polluted and diluted by Muggle filth. The Magical community should reign supreme, as is our right by the powers we have been granted.”

Dumbledore sighs. He tucks the parchment back into his robes and reclaims his mug, now no longer steaming. “I’ll make you a deal, Severus. For every useful piece of information you give me, I will remove one of the shackles. After four pieces of information, you can walk freely in the infirmary, and we can negotiate other privileges. Does this sound fair to you?”

“I will never betray the Dark Lord to you,” Severus grinds out.

Dumbledore shrugs, unbothered, and stands, turning to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Severus.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Severus mutters quietly. 

Judging by the hitch in the Headmaster’s even steps as he walks out, it’s not quiet enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a crazy few weeks, hasn't it. Sorry for the radio silence - I've been a bit, uh, busy. But now that things have settled down a bit, at least where I am, I'm back to editing and posting!
> 
> I know everyone comes to AO3 for an escape from reality, so I'll keep it short. Black lives matter. Donate where you can, if you've got time or money to spare. Vote where you can't. 
> 
> Stay safe y'all.


	7. Chapter 7

Severus is alone for a bare moment before the infirmary doors open in, this time revealing Madam Pomfrey’s unmistakable silhouette, carrying a tray of potions and supplies.

“Hello, Sev. It’s been too long,” she says with a gentle smile. She sets the tray on the table and takes a few of the supplies to restock her shelves. 

“You always complained about me being in here too much,” Severus grunts. With her back turned like this, hiding the fresh wrinkles on her face and the new grey streaks that have appeared in her uncovered hair, he can almost pretend he’s a fourth year again, can almost fall back into the familiar banter that they once had.

“Well,” Madam Pomfrey says, her hands pausing to hover over cabinet handles for a moment before closing them ever-so-softly, “I don’t think you stopped coming because people stopped hurting you.”

When she turns around again, she’s still smiling, but the lines around her eyes have tightened, something unnamed flickering in her bright eyes.

Severus’ eyes burn, and he tucks his face into his shoulder to quell the rising tide of emotions in his chest. He hears the rustle of Pomfrey settling into the chair Dumbledore was in moments ago, the squealing of the legs as she drags it closer to the bed.

When he looks up, she’s close enough that he could touch her, if he wanted to.

He doesn’t.

“Now then,” Pomfrey says, uncorking a small vial of a dark red potion, “If I release your hand, will you take this without mauling me?”

Severus blinks at her.

Pomfrey scoffs. “Don’t be silly, Sev. It’s just a Blood Replenishing Potion. You know how magic mucks with physical potions, and I have the Headmaster’s permission to free you to eat.” A little softer, she adds, “I remember how much you hated being hand-fed.” 

After a moment, Severus closes his eyes in agreement. With a soft rustle, the manacle on his left wrist falls open at her touch, and she places the little vial in his hand. Severus swirls it a few times, then sniffs it cautiously. The metallic aroma is strong and clear.

Pomfrey crosses her arms. “Horace doesn’t have the delicate hand you do, but he wouldn’t poison a student!”

Severus rolls his eyes, then lifts the vial and drains it in one go. The potion is thick and cloying, uncomfortably slippery as it goes down, and he forces himself not to cough at the taste like a child as he holds the now-empty vial back at Pomfrey.

His toes warm slowly as Pomfrey turns back to the tray and produces a steaming bowl of soup, handing him a spoon and balancing the soup at the edge of the table.

Severus grips the spoon tightly. The chicken soup looks delicious, as anything made by the house elves is. His stomach, however, turns at the lightly spiced smell. 

Pomfrey glares, mistaking his hesitancy for paranoia. “For God’s sake, Sev, nothing I will give you is poisoned.” She turns away to tidy the already neatly arranged tray. “It’s heartening to see that your paranoia hasn’t changed.”

“It’s not paranoia if it’s justified,” Severus grumbles, but steels himself to eat the soup anyway. A spoonful of the thin broth doesn’t make his stomach rebel, so he chances a few bites of chicken and celery.

The bit of solid food is too much for his roiling gut, and he’s only barely able to contort his body over the side of the cot before the few meagre bites he’s eaten make a reappearance.

Pomfrey tuts disapprovingly at him as she holds his hair back and Vanishes the mess. He retches three more times before his stomach calms and he can sit back onto the cot, scrubbing involuntary tears from his cheeks.

This time, when he looks up, Madam Pomfrey isn’t smiling. “You haven’t been eating.” 

Severus swallows uncomfortably, chasing the sour taste of bile back. Pomfrey Conjures him a glass of water, which he takes gratefully and sips slowly, avoiding eye contact with her.

“Sev, I thought you were recovered from that.” Her voice is disapproving and more maternal than it’s been in a very long time.

Severus grimaces. “It’s not that, Madam Pomfrey.”

There’s a quiet moment, before Pomfrey turns to her potions cabinet and begins rifling through it. “What is it, then?”

“I just-” Severus starts, clearing his throat. He ducks behind his hair to hide the red creeping up his neck. “I can’t afford it.”

The sound of glass on glass pauses for a bare moment. When he chances a glance up, Madam Pomfrey is looking blankly at her hands.

She blinks, and the spell is broken. “I’m out of anti-nausea potions, since the students aren’t here right now,” she says, forcing a tight-lipped smile. Then, after a moment, “I think you can call me Poppy, now.”

Severus doesn’t answer, placing his wrist back into the shackle she had freed him from. With a sigh, she closes it, the seam on the manacle flaring as it magically fuses shut.

“Do you think you can sleep without a potion?” She asks softly, but she makes no movement towards the potions cabinet, anticipating the shake of his head. “I’ll make a run to the apothecary when it opens tomorrow, then, so that you can have breakfast.”

The torches on the walls dim as Pomfrey leaves, and Severus shifts, settling into the cot.

It’s going to be a long night.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time the infirmary begins to lighten with the first few rays of the day’s sunlight, Severus has slept perhaps two hours, fluctuating between a restless doze and nightmares that leave him soaked in sweat.

He blinks heavy eyes at the crack in the ceiling he’s been staring at for the past hour, contemplating a modification to Polyjuice Potion to reduce the brewing time. Beginning the brew during the full moon would increase the potency of the fluxweed, which might reduce the time the bicorn horn needs to simmer, but only by a day or two... 

He’s dragged out of his thoughts by the soft rustle of Madam Pomfrey’s robes. He blinks rapidly at her, wondering how she managed to open the door without him noticing.

“Did you sleep, Sev?” She asks, placing a tray with a small bowl of porridge and vial of an off-white, cloudy potion. 

Severus startles as the shackle again falls off his wrist at Pomfrey’s light touch, and slowly raises his hand to rub at gritty eyes.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she says with a wry smile, uncorking the vial and handing it to him. 

This time, he downs it without even looking. The mildly herbal taste is soothing, and the thick texture is cooling as it coats his throat and stomach, which lets out a tired grumble at the smell of apple and cinnamon coming from the porridge.

This time, when he takes a few greedy bites, it stays down, and the lines around her eyes loosen for the first time in two days. When he’s scraped the bowl clean, he tips his head back and closes his eyes as Pomfrey re-cuffs him, feeling almost restful.

He waits for the telltale click of the infirmary door to lull him to sleep, but it never comes. Eventually, he cracks a bloodshot eye open and finds Madam Pomfrey sitting on the chair next to his cot, twisting a hairbrush in her hands. She startles when he makes eye contact with her, grip tightening on the brush.

He raises a sardonic eyebrow at her, too tired for words. The tight set of her shoulders loosens. “I was going to offer to brush your hair before you fell asleep.”

“Wasn’t asleep,” he mumbles, fatigue slurring his words.

It’s not a no. As his eyes slide closed again, a cleaning charm settles lightly over his hair before Pomfrey’s fingers begin carding through it, gently detangling the largest knots and separating it into sections. He barely even feels the brush running through the hair, but the rasp of bristles over his scalp drags a hazy memory to the forefront of his mind.

Third year, he’d come to school with a complex fracture in his left wrist. It had begun to heal wrong, and Madam Pomfrey had been forced to Vanish the bones and regrow them, which had kept him in the infirmary for observation overnight. 

The next morning, he’d tried to rush out early to make himself presentable before class - Potter’s bullying was insufferable enough when Severus didn’t have a tangled rat’s nest of hair on his head. His wrist would take another hour to heal, though, so Madam Pomfrey had stopped him and brought him a hairbrush.

A combination of the pain and frustration at using only his wrong hand to brush his hair had tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, which he’d frantically tried to wipe away, ignoring the jolts of pain it sent through his almost-healed arm.

Pomfrey, of course, had noticed, and had offered to brush his hair for him, in the rare minutes that no students burst into the infirmary. After a few more minutes of frustration, he’d relented, but only if she promised nobody would see them.

As a young child, Severus’ mom had brushed his hair in long, rough, strokes, detangling knots through sheer force rather than through careful attention. Severus had taken this habit into independence, leaving hair scattered on the floor of the bathroom that he would have to meticulously sweep up before his dormmates found another thing to tease him about.

Severus had tensed his neck in preparation for having his hair brushed, but Madam Pomfrey’s hands were gentle and kind, the tugging on his scalp barely noticeable. When she had stepped back a few minutes later and declared him presentable, he’d almost stormed out in rage at the prospect of her tricking him, pretending to brush his hair to waste his time and then sending him out to face his classmates.

When she’d brought him a mirror, though, his hair had laid smooth and flat, and the flyaways he’d had for years, the ones that drifted embarrassingly towards strong magic, were visibly reduced. He’d gaped at her, forgetting about his impending classes for a moment, and she’d placed a tentative hand on top of his head, something fonder than a Healer’s duty passing between them for the first time in the three years Lily had been forcing him to see her. 

Severus is jolted out of the memory by the soft click of the hairbrush on the nightstand, a tentative hand resting feather-light on his head. Before he can stop himself, he presses up into it, starving for touch that doesn’t bring pain.

As she smooths his hair, using gentle fingers to comb out the last remaining tangles, he finds tears slipping out of his eyes again. He can’t shift his arms to wipe them away without drawing her attention, though, so he stays still and hopes she won’t see, feeling heat creeping up the back of his neck and being seen so vulnerable.

Of course, he’s never been that lucky. “Sev?” She asks, fingers leaving his hair, a sharp rustle as she jolts to her feet. He clamps down on the pathetic whine that threatens to escape at the loss of contact. 

“Severus, are you okay?” Uneasiness is clear in her voice. “Sev, look at me. Are you in pain? What do you need?”

He cracks open eyes clouded with tears at her insistent tone, shaking his head as he tries to swallow past the lump in his throat.

“Severus, please. Talk to me.” Her hands are hovering uncharacteristically, her normally-composed movements tremulous with anxiety.

“I-” He manages to croak out. A fresh wave of tears escapes when he meets her eyes, and he swallows rapidly to quiet the sob rising in his throat. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

It’s like he’s thirteen again, so desperate for love that he’ll beg for scraps of attention, he’ll do anything to earn a smile and a bit of praise. Pomfrey seems to be remembering this too, smoothing down her skirt with careful hands. 

“I will use the skills given to me and learned by me to alleviate suffering to the best of my ability, be it physical, mental, or magical,” she says softly, the opening line of the Healer’s Creed that she had quoted to him the first time he had asked the question. “As a healer, I do no harm, though harm may befall me in the course of duty. It is my right and my privilege to help those who cannot help themselves. This I swear to Merlin, to my patients, and to myself.”

The hitch in his breath is loud in the silence as she lowers herself back onto the chair. When she reaches a hand out, however, he lurches away, chains rattling, shoulders straining in their sockets.

“Severus, stop. It’s okay. You’re okay,” she soothes, but the effort it takes to stifle his sobs renders him immune. The chains rattle violently, but a moment later, his limbs are free, allowing him to curl into a ball under the thin hospital sheet.

Madam Pomfrey is at his level in an instant, kneeling on the floor, rubbing his back to encourage his breath.

“Stop-” he chokes out, but as her hand lifts he can’t stop himself from following it like a lost puppy. She settles on a compromise, hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Severus, what do you want me to stop?” She asks, eyes not leaving his face. He shakes his head jerkily, teeth gritted too tightly for words. “Severus, I need you to talk to me. Please.”

“Stop- stop  _ caring _ about me. Stop  _ pretending _ to care about me,” he wheezes, teeth chattering.

The grip on his shoulder tightens infinitesimally. “I do care about you, Severus.”

Severus buries his face in his pillow. The thrashing has loosened the sleeve of the hospital gown covering his left forearm, and he can’t keep himself from clawing at it, streaking the angry black lines with blood.

She catches his hand. He can’t bring himself to fight her, even as his fingers twitch. 

“Severus, listen to me,” she says sternly. “I healed you every start of term, every break, every time you ‘fell down the stairs’ for six years, because you refused to give up your tormentors. I don’t know what you’ve done, or what choices you’ve made, but I know you. I know that I’ll heal you any time you’re hurt, as long as you ask, and even when you don’t.”

He shudders, wrists flexing in her grip. “You can’t,” he gasps, fingernails digging into his palms. “You can’t, because I have nothing to tell Dumbledore and he’ll kill me for it. Or he’ll set me free and the Dark Lord will kill me. Or I’ll survive all of that and starve to death because I’m- I don’t have money, I don’t have a name, I don’t have anything, or, or anybody-” His last word is cut off with a hysterical sob.

The cool feeling that appears in his stomach is jarring, but when he cracks open eyes he’d screwed closed somewhere in his breakdown, he sees her holding an emptied vial, the telltale sky-blue of a Calming Drought staining the bottom.

Pomfrey’s eyes are flinty, but the hand that smooths over his hair is gentle. “We’ll talk about this in the morning,” she says as his eyes drift closed. The click of her shoes on stone is angry, he notes vaguely, before he succumbs to exhaustion.


	9. Chapter 9

When Severus opens his eyes again, it’s dark. Judging by darkness of the sky, it’ll be several hours before the sun even thinks about rising again.

He must have been tired, if something as mild as a Calming Draught had knocked him out for more than half a day. He hasn’t had a night’s sleep that peaceful for years.

His mind is clearer, though. And as he shifts onto his side and sits up for the first time in days, he notices that the shackles still hang limply on the corners of the cot, leaving his limbs free.

The thought crosses his mind that this would be the perfect time to escape. He can’t help but think, though, that Dumbledore wouldn’t make it that easy for him; at the very least, the infirmary doors must be warded.

It doesn’t hurt that Hogwarts is the safest place for him, should the Mark burn.

Tentatively, he stretches, listening to his joints pop and crackle. The tile beneath his bare feet is cool and smooth, a welcome contrast from the starchy stiffness of hospital sheets.

He picks at the bandage on his left arm, a soft gauze that Pomfrey must have wrapped sometime during the day as he makes his way to the tall window beside his bed. The stars are winking brightly, and the soft moonlight reveals from his vantage point perched at the window, the grounds of Hogwarts haven’t changed one bit since he was last in this room five years ago.

Five years ago, he’d lost Lily. Two years after that, he’d graduated without connections, without a job, and without any prospects; it seemed, at the time, that he’d had no choice but to accept the Dark Lord’s invitation.

It didn’t hurt that everyone who had shown him any modicum of kindness in the past year had accepted that invitation, too. 

For a while, it seemed like he’d made the right choice. Here, he was appreciated; the Dark Lord and his followers fed and clothed him, made sure that the only thing he’d had to worry about were the potions he was concocting and improving, the bright new starbursts of spells that fell from his lips. He hadn’t even thought of the bodies he was cutting open, the children and innocents who’d fallen under his poisons.

For a while, he was blinded by ambition, ecstatic at the prospect of his rise to the top. He was in the limelight, stood at the Dark Lord’s left hand, right next to Lucius. His new and improved potions, the charms and and curses and mind magics that he’d fabricated had left the Aurors in the dust.

But slowly, his ideas had begun to fade. Seven years of recipes scribbled in the margins of textbooks had begun to run dry even as the Dark Lord demanded more and more. Slowly, he’d lost status, and then privileges, until he was told to provide for himself until he could once again meet the Dark Lord’s lofty demands.

By then, it was too late to back out. His every success was tied to the Dark Lord, and the golden memory of respect and reverence from his peers shone bright every time he closed his eyes. He’d given everything for his Lord, but no matter what he gave, it wasn’t enough anymore. He’d done too much for his Lord to go crawling back to Dumbledore, but he’d fallen too far to ever stand in the Dark Lord’s favor again.

Every second that passes while he’s here is another second closer to the Mark burning, to him being unable to answer the call, to a gruesome and bloody death.

Or it’s another second closer to being thrown into Azkaban forever, the memories of the blood he’s spilt staining his hands until he goes mad.

No matter what he does from now on, he loses, he muses serenely, gazing vacantly at the trees rustling in the night breeze. Somewhere along the line, lost in his thoughts, he’d slid down to the floor, chin resting on his hands on top of the windowsill, the cool of the floor seeping through his thin hospital gown.

Voldemort had given him everything that the world had refused him. Without the Dark Lord behind him, he’s nothing.

But now, in the Dark Lord’s eyes, he is nothing. His hands, speared under the sharp point of his chin, are calloused and stained, aching from uncountable rounds of the Cruciatus Curse and years worth of broken fingers that had never quite healed right.

In the past years, his hands had delivered the same torment that had befallen them. He’d split open Muggles and Muggleborns (not Mudbloods- never Mudbloods, never again), with a vicious and reckless abandon, forced vile, half-finished venoms down their throats, anything to get back the regard he’d had such a brief taste of.

It’s all been for naught.

No matter what he does, he’s damned.

He slumps at the windowsill for a very long time, watching the stars fade out of the sky.


	10. Chapter 10

When the sun’s first rays peek across the horizon, Severus unlocks stiff limbs and ambles back to the bed.

For a moment, he contemplates re-shackling himself. Dumbledore can’t be pleased with having his prisoner freed, especially when he’s given no useful information.

When he closes the manacle on his ankle, however, it falls open again, without the telltale flare of the runes activating. 

Instead, he props himself up on the headboard, both hands carefully empty on the sheet pulled up onto his lap.

The sun has inched its way up the time the infirmary doors open. He keeps his eyes firmly on his hands when he recognizes the telltale swishing of Dumbledore’s long robes on the stone floor, the scent of breakfast tea wafting towards him.

Dumbledore settles into the chair next to his cot, but conspicuously does not shift it away from Severus.

A clink on the table lifts Severus’ head almost lazily. Either Dumbledore has set the world’s most carefully-bottled vial of water on the table next to a cuppa, or the interrogation has come.

Severus’ eyes flick upwards. Dumbledore’s face is set, carefully neutral.

Interrogation it is, then.

“Veritaserum can be resisted through Occlumency, you know,” Severus says idly. 

His eyes lock with Dumbledore’s. Dumbledore’s expression doesn’t change, but the hand on the vial tightens in Severus’ peripheral vision.

“There hasn’t been an Occlumens strong enough to do so in decades,” Dumbledore replies, taking the Veritaserum and dripping three drops into the tea, stirring lightly.

 _That you know of_ , Severus barely manages to stop himself from replying. His skill at Occlumency had been one of his greatest strengths, in the Dark Lord’s eyes.

It had also been his downfall, as the Dark Lord’s mind slowly unraveled and his trust wore thin.

Dumbledore holds the cup of tea out to him. 

Severus takes it, and drains it under Dumbledore’s watchful eye. 

The serum clouds his senses, tugging the corners of his mind thin, prodding at weak points in the walls he’s so carefully built.

It’s a familiar sensation. The Dark Lord had been fond of testing him.

The memories should be creating panic, but under the shroud of Veritaserum all he can muster up is a mild sense of dread.

He places the mug back onto the nightstand, folding his hands into his lap.

“What happened when you were attacked last week?” Dumbledore starts. He’s produced a quill and parchment from somewhere in his voluminous robes, and is poised to take notes.

“Lucius wanted a favor. I refused.” Severus picks idly at the bandages on his left forearm. They’ve loosened, slightly.

“What favor did he want?”

Severus shrugs. “A spell, maybe. A potion, more likely. He hadn’t asked me yet when I refused.”

“Why did you refuse?”

“The Dark Lord was going to kill me when I couldn’t meet his demands. I needed Lucius’ help more than he wanted mine.”

“What did the Dark Lord want from you?”

Severus doesn’t answer for a long moment. The Veritaserum tugs at his tongue, prodding deep into his mental recesses for a full answer.

Severus contemplates clamping down on it, severing the link it has with those hidden memories, constructing a happy little box in which it can see all the fake memories it needs, and look no further.

There’s no point, though. He’ll never be accepted back into the fold now. And if Severus has to face defeat- well, the Dark Lord’s downfall might as well follow.

Severus licks his lips, chapped skin catching on his tongue. “An improved version of Draught of Living Death that would induce victims to age rapidly while comatose. An untraceable poison that could be disguised as a Calming Drought, to be administered while undercover as emergency services. A spell to induce rapid internal bleeding in a contained area. Several batches of the antidote to Veritaserum. A potion to activate lycanthropy outside of the full moon.”

The scratching of Dumbledore’s quill pauses. “Those are all lofty demands.”

It’s not a question, so Severus doesn’t answer.

“Did you intend to deliver on those demands?”

“I couldn’t have. That’s why he was going to kill me.”

A pregnant pause. Dumbledore smoothes a hand down his beard, a nervous tick that Severus makes a fuzzy mental note of. “But you wanted to.”

“Yes.” _God, yes._

“How many people did you kill during your service?”

“I don’t know. I can’t track where my potions go, or who learns my spells.”

“Severus. Look at me.” It’s not a question. The serum isn’t forcing him to act.

He does anyway, tipping his head back to meet cold blue eyes.

“How many people did you, personally, kill?”

The phantom sensation of warm blood and the echoes of agonized screams wash over him. He will remember his victims until the day he dies. “Thirteen.”

Dumbledore blinks. Severus can’t parse whether the number is higher or lower than the Headmaster was expecting. Uninhibited, his mouth keeps moving. “I never had the flair for the dramatic that the Dark Lord liked. After too many quiet deaths, he had others do it. The ones who found pleasure in nothing but blood.”

Severus’ jaw clicks shut. He hadn’t meant to say that much, Veritaserum growing exponentially stronger as it builds towards its break.

Dumbledore’s eyes are very serious as he sets down his quill. “Did you take pleasure in killing, Severus?”

Severus’ throat convulses, the Veritaserum dragging a primal reaction from the depths of his mind. All at once, the haziness of the serum breaks, and Severus is taking gulps of air, gasping like he’s drowning.

He scrabbles at his sleeve for a bezoar - the Dark Lord always poisons his tests, always, because what good is a brewer if he can’t even tell the effects of his own brews? But there are no telltale symptoms of poison, just a burning in his lungs as he wheezes, searching frantically for an antidote that isn’t there.

His clawing hands entangle in a thin strip of cloth, but the more he struggles, the tighter it gets. Fresh blood runs down the insides of his arms, and warm tracks of liquid run down his face.

He can’t take two poisons at once, not now. It might be a corrosive agent, or a hemotoxin, or even a simple paralytic, to stop him from saving himself.

Poppy’s warm hands invade his vision, stopping his ensnared hands from clawing at the liquid on his face.

Severus can’t remember why she’s here, or how she got here. If she’s been captured by the Dark Lord, then she’s surely in far more danger than he is. He can keep the Dark Lord’s attention on him for just a moment longer.

Weakly, he shoves at her hands. “Go,” he pants. “Run!”

Stubbornly, she stays in his line of sight. “-do you need? How can I help?” Her voice coalesces above the ringing in his ears, his own ragged breathing obscuring every other world.

Of course, she won’t leave until he’s safe.

“Poison,” he chokes out, “Bezoar-” He breaks off in a fit of coughing as his parchment-dry throat catches on itself. 

She presses a cold vial to his lips. She can’t have synthesized an antidote that quickly, but whatever she’s giving him can’t hurt.

He gulps greedily, downing more air than liquid in each desperate swallow. He hacks, no doubt spraying the liquid on her, but the vial poised at his lips remains steady, and eventually he swallows it all.

Within moments, he drops off into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

When Severus wakes up, Lily’s sitting at his bedside, reading a book.

He freezes.

Her fingers flip a page over. She hasn’t noticed he’s awake.

For a second, he thinks this is some kind of cruel trick. He blinks slowly, waiting for her face to resolve into someone else’s - anyone else’s, at all.

It doesn’t.

He peers up at her, soaking in her countenance. Her eyes are as green as ever, the curve of her smile unchanged by the years. She’s not exactly the same as she once was, though.

He studies her closely. The image he has of her, frozen in time, melts away slowly. The angle of her cheekbones is sharper, a few more freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. A new scar, faded with time, sits high on her forehead, near the hairline. 

The barest hint of crow’s feet touch at the corners of her eyes. She’s been happy, then.

That’s good.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Lily says dryly, turning another page.

Severus’s heart stutters in his chest. 

Her voice is a note deeper, a little richer. Of everything that’s changed, her voice has done the most aging. 

He wets his lips. “Why,” he whispers, then clears his throat, “Why are you here?”

She pauses for a moment, then calmly folds down the corner of a page and tucks the book into her robes. Only then does she finally meet his eyes. “You called me. After you got stabbed.”

“I-” Severus’ brow furrows, but his memory of the apartment after the attack is hazy at best. “I did?” Why did he do that?  _ How _ did he do that?

Lily sighs, slipping two matching mirrors from her pocket. 

Severus reaches out hesitantly, tracing the smooth edge of the mirror when Lily does not snatch them away.

The screen of the second mirror glows, and in her forearm holster, Lily’s wand does too, shining a bright, sickly green from her sleeve.

Severus swallows thickly. Despite everything, she hadn’t broken the connection or the mirror.

She was still willing to help him, after what he did to her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers under his breath, almost automatically. 

Lily’s eyes blaze, a familiar fury. “For  _ what _ ,” she hisses. 

Severus swallows.

“Four years, and that’s still the only thing you can say?” Lily’s voice has dropped even further, almost growling out the words.

He averts his eyes. He’s had three years of nights to lie awake and think of what he could have done differently, what apologies he could have made instead of a desperate ‘I’m sorry,’ and an unspoken, ‘Please, I’m nothing without you.’

“I was angry,” Severus says slowly, “And I was humiliated. And I just said the first thing I could think of to make you go away.”

“You called me a Mudblood,” Lily spits. “Was that the first thing you thought of? Is that all you think of me? A filthy, unworthy,  _ Mudblood _ ?”

Severus flinches. “Lucius was just starting to bring me to his friends, and that was just how they talked-”

“And you didn’t  _ stop _ them? You didn’t leave?” Lily’s grip on the table beside his bed is white-knuckled and furious.

Severus’ throat burns with tears, and all at once, he realizes that he’s angry, too. “Where was I supposed to go?” He all but shouts, gripping the sheets to stop himself from clawing at his freshly-bandaged arms. “I was  _ poor _ , and I was  _ alone _ , because everyone but them hated me!”

“That’s not true,” Lily says, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “If you needed help, you could have asked any of the professors. Slughorn, or Dumbledore-”

“They sat on their hands after a werewolf tried to  _ eat me _ !” Severus roars. Lily flinches back, but there’s so much red hazing in his vision that he doesn’t care. “All I wanted was someone to defend me! All I wanted was a friend!”

“I was your friend!” Lily cries, tears breaking free to stream from her face. “I was your best friend for six years! And then you called me a Mudblood and became a Death Eater, and you’re blaming me?”

“Maybe I am!” Severus chokes out around the lump in his throat. Lily’s trembling in her seat. “Maybe I am, because I made a mistake and you never let me apologize.”

He picks at a loose thread on the blankets. Lily’s breathing is heavy and harsh in the silence.

“I never stopped caring about you,” Lily starts quietly. “But you were going Dark before my eyes, and there was nothing I could do to save you.”

“You could have stayed my friend,” Severus mutters, feeling incredibly young, and indescribably small.

There’s a moment in which the anger dissipates from the air. “I don’t think that would have been enough,” Lily sighs. 

Severus dares a glance up. Lily’s turning her mirror between her hands, staring expressionlessly at it.

The slump of Lily’s shoulders is more exhausted than he’s ever seen it. “I’m sorry,” he whispers one more time.  _ For what it’s worth _ , he doesn’t say.

“I know,” Lily breathes. “But I can’t forgive you.”

“I know,” Severus returns. There’s nothing left to say.

Slowly, Lily stands, tucking the mirror in her hands back into her pocket. For a bare moment, she stands, eyes fixated on the remaining mirror, sitting innocently on the side table.

Her eyes flick back to his. Then, without breaking eye contact, she tucks her empty hand into her other pocket.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of her, staring long after the infirmary doors have closed.

As his eyes fall back to the table, he feels a soft smile crack across his face.

It’s enough.


	12. Chapter 12

Poppy brings him a simple sandwich and another bowl of soup for lunch. 

If she notices the mirror when she sets her tray down, she doesn’t say anything, and averts her eyes when he tucks it under the sheet.

She can’t fail to notice his improved mood, however, and he’s rewarded with a cheerful conversation about the most promising students she’s seen last year. A bright sixth year is excelling in everything but Potions, she tells him with a wink, and he rolls his eyes at the thought of being roped into tutoring another inept student.

“You were such a good tutor for the younger ones when you all were stuck here together, Sev,” she bemoans. “I haven’t been able to find Calming Draughts as good as yours since the last of your tutees graduated.”

“Oh?” Severus quirks an eyebrow, taking another spoonful of soup. “Shame that-”

The spoon clatters to the ground as Severus’ throat seizes, the Mark on his arm burning, sending shooting pain up through his shoulder and into his chest.

He curls in on himself, clutching his forearm desperately, breath coming in short, sharp pants. The pain is intensifying slowly - the Dark Lord is in a good mood today.

“Sev-” Poppy starts, but Severus cuts her off.

“Dumbledore,” he grits out through tightly clenched teeth, breath hitching sharply in the middle as the pain reaches its peak. 

She nods and hurries out the door, leaving him alone as the pain begins to ebb.

By the time the Headmaster sweeps in, the pain has subsided to a light burn, and Severus is inspecting his arm. None of the skin along the dark lines has split, which is a good sign. The Dark Lord might even listen to an excuse before beginning the Cruciatus. 

“I want out,” Severus says without lifting his head.

Dumbledore’s quiet for a moment, before he responds with a simple, “Okay.”

Severus’ head shoots up, his eyes narrowed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Dumbledore confirms. His eyes betray the weight of his years, usually hidden behind a cheerful demeanor and robes a touch too big and bright.

Severus’ eyes narrow further. “I want to help,” he clarifies, and a muscle in the Headmaster’s jaw jumps. 

The Headmaster opens his mouth to speak, but Severus plows straight through him.

“You have to decide what to do with me now. Lucius will tell the Dark Lord that he killed me, but that will only satisfy them until they find my empty apartment, along with what I will assume are telltale traces of Apparition. You have three options. Either you release me, in which case you lose the best source of information you’ve had since this war started, or you keep me prisoner, in which case the Dark Lord will not stop until I am dead, in which case you must divert precious - and I assume quite scarce - resources to keeping me alive. In those two scenarios, I inevitably die, in which case I have nothing to lose, but more importantly, nothing to gain.”

“And the third?” Dumbledore asks, the cheerful twinkle in his eye narrowing down to sharp consideration.

Severus takes a shallow breath. “The third is that you release me, and I convince the Dark Lord that I have spent the better part of the past month gaining your favor, so that I can serve him as a double agent.”

Dumbledore is quiet for a moment, a moment that stretches far too long. 

Severus, through sheer force of will, keeps his hands firmly still in his lap.

“I can’t ask that of you,” Dumbledore finally says. “And, if you will allow me the luxury of honesty, I don’t trust you.”

Severus lets out a breath. This he can work with.

Severus keeps his eyes firmly on Dumbledore’s. He waits for the telltale prod of Legilimency at the corners of his mind, and then, very deliberately, for the first time in five years, drops his Occlumency shields.

Dumbledore blinks. 

Severus feels very exposed, too big for his body, and his hands tremble with the emotions coursing through his veins, no longer held back by his mental shields. Memories of nights spent carefully studying a potion melt into restless nights thinking of Lily; mild irritation at the blood staining his robes shatters into dry-heaving for hours, the image of his victim’s last expressions etched permanently into the backs of his eyelids.

_ Let me help, _ Severus projects, as loudly and forcefully as he can, feeling it more deeply than he’s allowed himself to in years, and is rewarded by a minuscule twitch of Dumbledore’s eyebrows.

And then, so very slowly, Dumbledore leans forward and puts his face into his hands.

Severus freezes. This he does not know how to work with.

After a long moment, Dumbledore lifts his head to rest them on his hands. “Sometimes,” he starts, eyes fixed vacantly on the corner of the room, “I find myself reminded of just how young you all are.”

There’s nothing that can be said to that, although Severus can’t stop the sharp twinge of irritation he feels.

Dumbledore meets Severus’ eyes, and Severus sees clearly, for the first time, the weight of a near-century behind his eyes.

“What you are offering to me,” Dumbledore says slowly, “is monumental. You will be crucial to the war effort, and you will be more alone than you have ever been. You will be distrusted by both sides you serve, and perhaps even by me.”

Dumbledore’s hands twist, and in a moment, he is cloaked again in his genial guise.

“This path will not be easy. You will struggle for redemption to the bitter end, and I cannot promise it to you, no matter how great your sacrifice. Are you prepared for that?”

Severus thinks of a child’s hand stretched out to him in a playground, a daisy uncurling daintily in its grip. He thinks of the dark lines seared into the flesh of his arm, and the way the snake writhes angrily as it spreads its venom into his blood. 

He thinks of a girl of fifteen, hand outstretched to a boy rapidly being swallowed by an inky darkness. He thinks of a boy of seventeen, raw like an open wound, grasping for a lifeline that had slipped away an inch from his fingertips, and, he thinks, the past is gone.

Out loud, he says, “Yes. I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Thanks for sticking with me to the end. It's been a rough week (month, year...) but I've had fun writing this, and hopefully you've enjoyed reading it, too. 
> 
> (Also, if you're an American citizen, please vote. Please.)


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